Day 265: Grownup Time

I love my kids, but man, it's good to have some grownup time in which they're not  around. Ha. That sounds a lot worse than it's intended to. The opportunities that my wife and I get to get away together alone are rare and rarer. So, when those times do manage to come along, like it did yesterday, I savor them for all they're worth.

The thing is that despite how freeing and wonderful it is to walk through a store without the persistent wailing of "Can I get this? Can I get this? Hey, Can I get this?" or how magnificent it is to get through a meal in which nothing is spilled on me, it's always good to come back home and see those faces.

Still, grownup time is so, so good. We've had kids around for roughly 21 years. Whereas most of my friends are at the age where they can go out on the town for a dinner and date without worrying about babysitters or the sniffles or stepping on toys in the middle of the night, we're not. Sometimes, I forget what it's like to sit across the table with a women and just be able to bask in the beauty without having a crayon in my hand connecting dots on a kids' menu. Sometimes, I forget what it's like not having to share my food or cut someone's meat. Sometimes, I forget what it's like not having to get home by 9 p.m. because someone's bed time is coming on fast.

But again, like previously mentioned, it's always good to come back home when adult time is over.I have a feeling that having too much adult time on my hands would ruin me. Besides, the day will come when I have nothing but adult time to spend, and I know I'll long for the days when I didn't. 

Day 264: 16 Years Of Marriage & Counting

Today is my wedding anniversary. I’ve been married to the same woman for 16 years. I’d be lying if I said it’s been all smooth sailing, but can anyone who has been married say that in complete honesty? I can say without a bit a hesitation that for every rut my wife and I have had to dig ourselves out of, it’s only strengthened the bond for the long haul.

Are there things I’d change? Well, hell yes, there are. But I’m not one of those people who says, “Oh no, I wouldn’t change a thing.” Christ, if I’m not learning from my past and could have eased the burden I put on someone else through better judgment, why wouldn’t I change them?

Now, do I regret having gone through anything that’s gone down during these 16 years? Hell no. I lived a hundred lifetimes in that span. I’ve seen my family expand, morph, twist, turn, rise, fall, spread apart, and come back together. I witnessed children come into the world, become part of the world, take on the world, and create their own worlds. I’ve found out more about myself through my wife and kids during these years than would have ever been possible without them, and that includes a whole lot of things I’m really pleased about. I’ve felt emotions I never knew existed. I’ve accomplished things I never knew were possible. Hell, I was still a boy when I got married. I’ve grown into a man during these 16 years. For that alone, what could I possible regret?

I’ve been lucky. I realize that—even on those occasions when I’ve flat-out questioned the cosmic forces at work by asking, “What the hell, man? Can’t you pick on someone else awhile?” I think back to my wedding day and all the people who made a presence, and it’s remarkable how many of those people are still in my life. My closest friends then are still among my closest friends now. My parents are still a presence in my existence. My wife’s family is, too, and I’ve only grown closer with many of them. My children still speak to me (most of the time). I (along with my wife) was able to provide good, decent lives for them growing up. We’ve had a good roof over our heads for 16 years. We’ve had food in the fridge. We’ve gone on vacations. We’ve celebrated birthdays. We’ve played in dozens of parks. We’ve put air into a lot of bike tires, balls, and balloons. We’ve eaten a lot of cakes and a lot of bowls of ice cream. We’ve paid a lot of medical bills but we are all still intact. We’ve enjoyed a lot of meals together and broken a lot of bread. We’ve had a lot of arguments that we’ve survived. I’ve had discussions and conversations with my kids that I guarantee a good amount of parents never come close to with theirs. We've loved pets and lost pets. We listened to, shared, and watched music being played together. We’ve shed tears belly laughing and crying in pain. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always real and honest and intimate.

The best thing about these 16 years? Without a doubt, it’s the inside information, the inside jokes, the impersonations, the secrets, the details, the goods that only five other people walking the planet will ever truly appreciate besides myself. To me, that’s the definition of family, and family was made possible by marriage. 

Day 263: A Dream About Uncle Gene's

Last night, for whatever reason, I had a dream that took place in my Uncle Gene’s house. A really strange dream. Basketball. Babies. Diapers. People I didn’t know. Who knows what the hell it was about? I rarely make sense of my dreams, as hard as I try.

The great aspect about my dreams, though, is that they’re usually extremely vivid and extremely specific. Typically, the detail is pretty amazing, and my ability to remember it later on is usually equally so. The great aspect about last night’s dream was being back in Uncle Gene’s house again.

From the time I was eight until I went off to college, we lived next to Uncle Gene’s house, a house that he still lives in today. Arguably, other than my own house, I spent more time there than any other building on the planet. I was there before school each morning to catch a ride. I was there on weekends while being babysat. I was there on late Saturday nights while my aunts and uncles played cards and the kids watched “Create Feature.” I was there on the Fourth of July, Christmas, birthdays, and more. I was there on many a night in high school and later drinking beer after Uncle Gene went off to work. I played my first video game there. I saw my very first MTV video there when I was 15 one morning before school. I climbed the tree in the back yard about every chance I got. I played “bloody bucket” and “tackle the man with the ball” in the front yard. And I spent countless hours playing basketball on Uncle Gene’s driveway. Countless hours.

To this day, sometimes when I’m shooting baskets on my own hoop, I stop and say a “thank you” to Uncle Gene for putting up with that bouncing ball against the pavement, year after year after year. Despite endlessly banging airballs galore off his car, off his garage doors windows, off his lawn mower, and off the side of his house, he never once asked me to quit. He never once told me what a pain in the ass I must have been. He never once yelled at me or even hinted at being bothered by the racket. Not once. And this was a guy who spent years working nights, meaning all those morning and afternoons I was slamming a ball against the pavement outside his house, he was trying to sleep.

One of my favorite and probably oddest pastimes as a kid was sitting on the back steps of our deck and watching Uncle Gene mow his lawn. He was a magician with grass. Easily, he could have worked at any baseball stadium he wanted performing his magic. The way he perfectly criss-crossed the rows so effortlessly, forming these perfect Xs in his yard, would leave me in awe. Time after time I’d try to pattern what he did in our lawn when I mowed, but time after time I’d fail miserably.

I haven’t been in Uncle Gene’s house in probably more than 10 years. I’m not sure why. My parents moved away years ago, and I can’t remember the last time I was even in that old neighborhood, let alone at his house. But thanks to the magic of dreams, I was back in that kitchen and living room and in that basement again last night, standing next to that old pool table sitting next to his work bench; banging my thigh yet again against the ping pong table made out of card tables; looking out of that small, square window, the same one that I swore I saw Santa Clause peeking in on that Christmas Eve night decades and decades ago; and sitting again on that old, green couch that I always loved. At least I remember it being green, and at least it’s still green in my dreams.

The only thing seemingly missing from that dream last night was the pit stop I always made to the freezer in the kitchen every time I was in the house. That’s where Uncle Gene kept the steady stream of Drumsticks, which he pretty much bought for me to stuff in my fat face. Damn, I loved those, as much as I loved the Hostess Ho Hos and Ding Dongs he stowed away in the third cabinet drawer.

It’s funny how some places never stop existing. 

Day 262: Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini

Today, I was feeling a little crappy about things. Nothing major. Nothing life-altering. Just crappy. Had a crappy time getting out of bed this morning. Had a crappy run over the lunch hour. Followed that up with a crappy lunch. I just had a crappy feeling hanging over my head most of the day. It happens to everyone now and again. But then something  intervened, as things often will if you're paying attention. I heard an interview on the radio on the way back to work with a sports writer named Mark Kriegel, a guy who has written a book called "The Good Son: The Life of Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini ." I like Kriegel's stuff. I like his style and approach. He previously wrote a book I read and like a great deal about  Pistol Pete Maravich, who next to Dr. J, is probably my favorite all-time basketball player. Kriegel also hosts a show for Fox Sports called Barfly that I like a lot. Maybe because I like bars and sports, and I really like when those two things come together. So, I'm expecting big things from his book on Mancini. 

For the uninitiated, Mancini was a great, great boxer in the early 1980s, probably the golden era of boxing in this country. Back then you could see nearly all the big fights on network television, including a lot of live fights featuring the greats like Ali, Foreman, Frazier, Norton, Duran, Hearns, Hagler, Sugar Ray, etc. Those you didn't see live, you could likely catch the following week or sometime after on Wide World of Sports with Howard Cosell calling the action. Back then, boxing was full of characters, guys like Randall "Tex" Cobb. Guys like James Scott, a contender who would fight from within Rahway Prison where he was incarcerated. You could see the great Earnie Shavers, a scary as hell puncher who was the precursor to Mike Tyson. Hell, arguably the greatest fight I ever witnessed was Aaron Pryor vs. Alexis Arguello, which took place on a hot Miami night and which I watched on my TV as a kid without shelling out $65 for the pay per view right to do so. 

Mancini wasn't my favorite fighter, but I watched him fight many times. He was a continual underdog, and he was famous for his big and mighty heart in the ring. He was also noted because of his relationship with his father, who was a contender in his own day and was in his son's corner. My favorite Mancini fight was with Arguello, which Mancini lost. He later won the lightweight title from Arturo Frias, who pummeled Mancini early on but who couldn't put him away. 

Despite becoming a world champion when few people ever expected as much, Mancini later became most moted for his fight with Duk Koo Kim, whom died in the ring. The fight was a war. Literally, a war between two men. I remember watching the rounds unfold, and I remember thinking at the time, "this is scary brutal." In the next to last round, Kim went unconscious and never would wake. Eventually, his family took him off of life support. Kriegel's book picks up the story all these years later, detailing what has occurred in Mancini's life since, but just as importantly, what has occurred with Kim's family, including his son, wife, and mother. 

As I listened to Kriegel on the radio describe how the Mancini family and Kim family came together recently to share time, including sharing a meal to honor Kim, suddenly, my crappy day didn't seem so crappy. 

Imagine killing another man in the name of sport. Imagine living with that the rest of your days. Imagine being a son having to grow up without a father, knowing how he died. Why he died. Knowing there's a possibility it could have been prevented. Knowing that millions of people had watched his father literally beaten to death. Knowing that his father might have died needlessly, but he died doing what he most likely loved. Imagine the baggage those people carry around each day. Real baggage. Really pain and hurt. Real loss. Yeah, suddenly, my crappy little run and crappy little lunch felt and tasted pretty good. 

Sometimes, I get a little pissed at myself for bemoaning the trivial. I am thankful, however, that when something pops up to remind me that in actuality I'm pretty lucky, I recognize it and let it take hold. 

Day 261: Whew!

Today, I thought I had lost this blog. I thought all the posts that I written every day of this year had somehow been deleted. Gone. Poof. Vanished. In the ether. I legitimately was worried. After all, it's not unprecedented; people lose digital work all the time. Massive amounts of it. And my faith in Google to help me restore my lost posts wasn't all that great, to be honest. Multiple-billion dollar companies have better things to do than help a schmo retrieve his silly little daily musings. 

There's nothing better than the relief of knowing that something you thought you'd lost really isn't gone. Nothing better than finding that certain something you'd feared was gone forever really isn't. 

It's a lesson and a tremendous reminder to take nothing for granted. Don't assume anything. Be thankful for the here and now. Take notice of what's right in front of your face before it's gone. 

Man, if you know me at all, you know how little regard I hold for cliches or touchy feely goodness echoed in the sentenced above. It's just not my personality. But I think maybe, just maybe, the ice is melting a little bit, and I have to thank these silly little daily musings for that. Maybe I'm realizing the worth of a good cliche. 

It's a funny thing being a writer. You're happy when people read your stuff. Your unhappy when they don't. But ultimately you write for yourself. Oh, you very well may be writing for an audience with a certain piece, but if you're really practicing the art of writing, you're doing it for your soul. You're filling some need. You're tapping into something that you can't otherwise tap into without the use of words. Writing provides some kind of satisfaction that's not available by other means. It provides some kind of learning process. Writing takes you places, dumps you in the middle of it, and relies on your skills to get you out. I love that about writing. 

Truth is, I would have been really, really disappointed if I'd had lost these posts to the digital graveyard never to be seen again. I might have even been devastated temporarily. But at the end of the day, I would have carried on, because really, there isn't any other option. More importantly, though, I'm not writing these silly little daily musing to compile some collection of daily entries at the end of it all, although that will be a nice benefit. I'm writing them to learn something about myself along the way and learn how I view the world around me and my place in it. That's the point. 

That said, whewwwwwwwwwwwww!! 

Day 260: Billy Jack

For some reason as I lay awake in bed last night staring at the ceiling deep into the morning hours, my mind turned to "Billy Jack," one of my favorite movies for all times. Such is the way my mind works. Some men dream of making their first million. Some dream of what they will cross off their bucket list next. I think about "Billy Jack."

I've seen "Billy Jack" 10 times if I've seen it once. It's been many a year since my last viewing, but each time I take that flick in, it only gets better and more compelling. "Billy Jack" is in no way the best movie ever written, directed, or acted, not by a long shot, but man if it doesn't resonate with me for some reason. Tom Laughlin, I don't know how you did it, but you made me a believer in Billy. Maybe it was the bad-ass beaded hat he wore. Maybe it was the way he ever so coolly took his cowboy boots off before doling out an ass whipping. Maybe it was the whole package, but I was enthralled with the essence that was one Billy Jack. 

I've always been a sucker for a movie that presents a strong, bad-ass hero who carries himself in an unconventional manner, who is a solitary figure, and who is broken and flawed but ultimately unquestionably good. Billy Jack's primary flaws are his anger and his act-before-thinking demeanor, which causes him to write checks his fists and feet can't completely cash. Billy acts in violence first and leaves reason as a possibility sometime down the road. But that trait is also the very one I loved about BJ. He didn't flinch. He didn't hesitant. He took on all comers, no matter the odds. Such is the hero in the movies. 

Each time I watched "Billy Jack," I was left with the question, "How would have I acted if in Billy's position?" Would I have handled myself in the same manner that Billy does when it came time to put the snot-nosed Bernard Posner and his pack of flunkies in their place? I'm not sure it's a positive trait, but I was always left believing I'd most likely act with fists before reason. That's probably my inflated ego at work, though. I'm guessing in reality, I'd try reason before letting my fists of fury fly. We can't all be Billy Jacks, after all.  

As a kid when I watched "Billy Jack," I vehemently thought, "Jean, would you please shut the hell up and just let Billy do what Billy does best, kick ass." I wasn't much in favor of Jean's voice of reason, no matter how much sense and dignity it might of held in comparison to a karate chop to the nose. As I got older, I better understood ole' Jean's footing and how sometimes to make progress, you have to take the long route and not the one that necessarily offers instant gratification.  

During my first few viewings,"Billy Jack" appealed to me pretty much only for the violence. The movie played out very much like a western, only set in modern time. That I loved the fighting scenes in which Billy dealt out bone-crunching punishment wasn't too surprising considering my age in the late 1970s and how impressionable I was. It didn't hurt that I grew up in a house where John Wayne, Lee Marvin, and the like were worshiped. I was drawn in by Billy's manly man persona. He possessed what I thought were the best traits of Bruce Lee (a mastery of martial arts) and Dirty Harry (oozing machismo). I still get chills picturing the scene in which Billy confronts old man Posner and defiantly proclaims, "You know what I think I'm gonna do then? Just for the hell of it?" After old man Posner answers, "Tell me," Billy matter-of-fact says, "I'm gonna take this right foot, and I'm gonna whop you on that side of your face, and you wanna know something? There's not a damn thing you're gonna be able to do about it." 

Whop!! 

After viewing four or five or so, "Billy Jack" started to leave me saddened and hollow as the credits rolled and "One Tin Soldier" played in the background. This was about the time in my life when the scenes portraying racial bigotry and abuse toward women, although undeniably  presented heavy-handed, had an extremely painful and eye-opening impact on me as a kid watching. One one hand, the scene of a woman being physically held against her will and raped turned my stomach. On the other hand, the scenes in which the town's elders actively led the discrimination left me confused and bitter. The scene in which the kids from the Freedom School head to town, decide to get some ice cream in a local shop, only to be demeaned and battered simultaneously brought tears to my eyes and made my blood boil . When I was younger, it could sometimes take days to get the image out of my head of the little Native American girl having flour poured over her head to make her "white." Even the gratification of Billy coming to the rescue and going "berserk" on Posner did little to offer relief. 

It's funny to me which movies from my childhood have stuck with me and why. If I watched "Billy Jack" for the first time today as a grown,  middle-aged man, I'm fairly certain the inner critic in me would take over and focus on the film's weaknesses, of which there are probably many. The movie, after all, sends a pretty mixed message by putting the Freedom School,  populated by peace-loving pacifists and hippies, at its core only for the protagonist to be a walking, talking ass-kicking machine who uses violence to right pretty much every wrong. I think that's the beauty of a young mind, though. You don't tend to view everything as a cynic. You tend to view with your emotions, which isn't such a bad thing. 

Day 259: Cutting The Cord

Last Friday marked an monumental day in my household, well at least for my kids. It was on  that day that we (meaning my wife and I) cut the cord. Not in the metaphorical sense of releasing another child to the wild (although that is coming), but in the sense of cutting the cable television cord in two. Ah, the power rush that came shortly afterward was indescribable. I may live to regret the decision later this winter on those cold days when Mother Nature has forced me inside to stay, but for now, I'm pretty well satisfied with myself. 

To say that the decision (one that was made due to a combination of economic, time-management, and simple value vs. cost assessment reasons--was met with the same enthusiasm and acceptance by my children would be a flat-out lie. To the contrary. A near mutiny almost immediately erupted upon spreading the glorious news. Riots. Chaos. Threats. One daughter openly (and with complete sincerity) questioned the sanity of her parents. Another daughter, the youngest in our brood of children, keeps pointing the remote at the television in an attempt to Pause the live programming. Apparently, today's  technologically savvy youth can't comfortably make a trip to the bathroom without temporary halting what's onscreen. Admittedly, even I have felt the absence of those hundreds of channels accessible at my fingertips. On at least one occasion, I found myself  looking forward all day to watching something that night, only to be reminded with a seemingly mocking reply of "No Signal!" on the blackened TV screen that the channel no longer exists in my household. 

Now, to say that those living in my abode are completely without ample viewing options would be misleading. We aren't. Not by any stretch of the imagination. In addition to having an Internet-connected DVD player that's capable of streaming movies and television programs from Netflix, Hulu, Vudu, and other services, we still have access to 18 or so digital stations thanks to a pair of HD-quality antennae I picked up for $20 total. So, beyond PBS, NBC, CBS, and ABC stations all in HD, we have a surprisingly healthy supply of church-, Latino- and ad-supported stations to sit back and enjoy. 

But the hits keep on coming. Anyone with a bit of Internet intelligence knows there are all kinds of free content available online, including movies, documentaries, kids programs, videos, and more. So, with a simple cable connection from one of the notebooks present in the house to the HDTV, we're in business for watching anything from "Sanford & Son" re-runs via Crackle to the local news in Honduras if we so desire. And have I mentioned the vast amounts of goodness waiting at the ole' public library?  

Personally, I'm hoping life sans cable television helps gets my butt in gear to do more reading and writing. More guitar playing and learning. Take a college course or two. Do more building and creating. Do more exploring, hiking, home improvement. See more art. Hear more music. 

I suspect once my kids get over the culture shock, they'll do the same. They'll adjust. I believe they'll be better for it. At least that's the plan. 

Day 258: Observations

Today, I observed how much I like cooking shows. So much that I don't even care what's being cooked. I don't care that I don't particularly like what's being cooked or have any interest in actually eating it. I just like the process. 

I observed that I can feel just as close with my daughter while we're playing together but not saying a single word as we are playing and blabbering on endlessly. 

I observed how much I love to paint, despite the fact that I suck. 

I observed how little I miss TV when it's not available. 

I observed how damn good an egg sandwich can be if it has just the right amount of pepper sprinkled on top. 

I observed how many glasses five people can go through in one day. 

I observed I love the word "miggie," as in pirate miggie, as in what my daughter has come to call a pirate "mattie." 

I observed that I'm convinced that my guitar is a gift from god. 

I observed there is nothing quite as beautiful as a blue sky. 

I observed that kid channels on Internet radio stations really love songs about ducks. 

I observed there are a lot of ways a duck can quack. 

I observed there's a time and place for everything. 

I observed Internet access is not to be taken for granted. 

I observed that toast, quite possibly the simplest of foods, is also among the best tasting when accompanying a cup of coffee. 

I observed that my favorite days are those on which not a whole lot happens. 

Too bad there isn't a job that pays a person to just observe, because I'm good at it. I could just blend into the woodwork and watch the world pass by and be perfectly content. You learn a lot by just watching. Just shutting your mouth and letting the moments pass by in thought. You see more. You sense more. You learn to predict and anticipate. You learn to know where the moment is traveling, and that's important. You become more of a moment when you're not trying to dictate it. Not trying to pursue it. Not trying to make it last. You become bigger than yourself when you're not trying to make the moment about yourself.